[h]
I feel as if the world is against me,
As the winds continue to blow,
And the rivers continue to flow,
What is there to stay for, what is there left for me?
They all accuse me of my guilt,
Of which its twisted foundations were built,
Which they would not withdraw,
Or otherwise return.
Maple is but a desolate landscape,
As are the apocalyptic battlefields of Red Alert,
Now I am all but inert,
In this desolate landscape.